


Aegri somnia vana

by editorbit



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, One Shot, mentions of unpleasant things related to war, who doesn’t like some of that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22863568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: The sunlight drapes over him like a blanket. Its pleasant presence does no good to the coolness residing within him like a parasite refusing to leave.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	Aegri somnia vana

The sunlight drapes over him like a blanket. It embraces his relaxed body in its invisible arms, grazes his skin with gentle, warm fingers and whispers calming words into his ears with its gentle breeze of a breath. His skin feels ever so slightly warm under the touch of the sun and his uniform heats up the hidden skin underneath more than it usually would. Inside though, closer to the core of his being, the sun doesn’t reach. Its pleasant presence does no good to the coolness residing within him like a parasite refusing to leave. 

When he closes his eyes, warm colours appear before him, projected by the sun. When he closes his eyes, he can hear every rustle of the grass, every footstep, voice and tone of the soldiers - though barely any of the words uttered - and every calm, deep, slow breath leaving and entering his lungs through his parted lips. Draped over it all is a silence. It looms over it all, the grass, men and trees, invisible to the naked eye, yet heavy and present. It’s waiting for something to come drown it out. It’s temporary which makes it all the more noticeable. When he closes his eyes, he can relax. He can shut his surroundings out and pretend. Pretend the rustling comes from the nature outside his home, the grass and the trees. Pretend the footsteps and voices belong to familiar faces. Pretend his breaths are taken in the comfort of his home. The silence lingering in the air is light and the warmth of the sun shining through the window seeps through his skin and into his body, heating him up like a hot beverage on a cold day. 

In the grass not too far from him, lies Blake. His eyes are shut, his hands are folded beneath his helmet-free head and his legs are stretched out as the young man rests. So young, he thinks, he’s so young. He bears a relaxed, almost carefree expression on his face as he lies there in the warm grass, as if he’s elsewhere. Blake is lying somewhere far away on a field in the middle of God-knows-where back in England, surrounded by healthy, living, unharmed trees and flat, green fields bereft of craters, shells, bombs and rotting corpses of men. Above him lies a sky empty and silent, occupied only by the sun and the occasional passing cloud. Beneath him the grass is soft and not once is his peaceful sleep interrupted by the pitter-patter of small rodent feet, sharp, curious teeth or distant noises of death and destruction. Nothing but the sweet scent of spring, grass and sunshine enters his nostrils with every breath he takes. Schofield wishes he could lie there with him, but shutting his eyes and convincing himself he is somewhere he isn’t can only get him so far. 

How he does it, he doesn’t know. The innocence and brightness seemingly trapped behind his eyes no matter how bad the world treats him. While eyebrows furrow and posture stiffens his eyes remain untouched. The calm voice he holds as he speaks out there among the danger and the dead. Jokes leave his lips as he stands out in the trenches with rain soaking his clothes and dripping down his helmet and with water to his calves, staining his shoes and socks, as if he is completely unaware of just how dirty and tainted that water is. Stories are told in the dark, when every living soldier is tucked into their own little corner, helmets tucked down to cover their faces and arms wrapped around their shivering bodies, searching some sort of comfort in the otherwise uncomfortable situation they are stuck in. The dead ones lie out there somewhere, alone, rotting and exposed. Blake seemingly pays them and the faint sounds of bombs in the distance - as well as the louder ones - no mind. His voice merely carries on. And then there is the undeterred, young spirit of his. War ages men and yet Blake is still so young. 

In the grass not too far from him, Blake stirs. "'s the war over yet?" His voice is nothing but a tired mumble and a hint of a smile plays on his lips. He watches as eyes finally flutter open to stare up at the blue sky above them. A single cloud passes by ever so slowly, barely missing the sun. The equally blue eyes follow it as it floats by before closing for a moment as he yawns, lips parting and hands moving from under his head so he can stretch his limbs. Like a star he lies there, eyes meeting his own. Underlying Blake’s voice is a joking tone, yet Schofield merely shakes his head, lips forming a thin line. The serious, borderline grim response must not have been what he had wanted because Blake rolls over and pushes himself up to sit on his knees. "Sco? You okay?" he asks, dark brows furrowed and hand searching for the helmet he had left somewhere beside him. "You seem lost." Like he’s somewhere else.

A new cloud passes by above them, covering the sun. It becomes ever so slightly darker and the warmth seems to immediately leave his skin, leaving him with the spreading coolness. Blake’s dark brows relax, a knowing expression spreading across his face, and he reaches out a hand to give his leg a comforting squeeze. His grip is weak, gentle almost, like he’s afraid he’ll bruise him. A breeze waves over them and the blanket that is the sunshine is pulled away. Blake visibly shivers as the warmth leaves him as well, though unlike Schofield’s, his exposed skin grows pale, sickly pale, almost grey. 

When Schofield opens his eyes, Blake is gone. Shutting his eyes and convincing himself he is somewhere he isn’t can only last so long, until reality catches up with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Aegri somnia vana; A sick man’s dream (Latin), hallucination


End file.
